


Waltz

by JenNova



Series: Home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenNova/pseuds/JenNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever had started with Sherlock’s kiss has developed at the sort of glacial pace Greg would’ve hated when he was younger – he’d met his wife and married her within a year, which was probably a sign he should’ve paid more attention to – but he’s found himself enjoying it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Continuing from the previous part. This one got away from me a bit. Once again, beta credit to dearest Loz.

“Didn't go to any trouble, did you?”

Greg stares at Sherlock for a long time, curls his shaking hands into fists and tries not to hit the man he’s tentatively dating. The sirens are howling on the street and there’s the thick thumping of a helicopter hovering overhead. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, something between confusion and surprise in his eyes.

“You’re a bastard, you are,” Greg says, he grabs the radio clipped to his waist. “Do you have any idea how much of my budget I’ve just blown on you?”

“I’m –” Sherlock starts. Greg stops him with a raised hand.

“Quiet,” Greg barks, he flicks the radio on. “False alarm. Stand down.”

“ _For fuck’s sake, Lestrade!_ ”

“I know, I know, don’t worry,” Greg glares at Sherlock. “It’ll come out of _my_ budget.”

The sound of SCO19 pulling out comes through the open window, the swearing is comprehensive in its scope, and the helicopter beats away. In the sudden silence Greg can hear his heartbeat still pounding in his ears, quickened since he received Sherlock’s texts.

“I wasn’t aware this would be your level of response,” Sherlock says, pushing to his feet. He looks uncharacteristically chastened, humble. It’s not exactly a good look on him.

“Sherlock –” Greg pauses and forces the tension out of his shoulder, closes his eyes and breathes. “Two years ago you died. Even if we weren’t – doing whatever it is that we’re doing – this still would’ve been my response.”

“In my defence,” Sherlock says, taking a hesitant step forward. “John’s request has surprised me. I –”

“You panicked,” Greg says, setting the radio on a table. “Like I did when I thought were in trouble.”

“I don’t panic,” Sherlock says, some of his customary arrogance back in his voice.

“Oh, you do,” Greg says, smiling despite the anger still trapped in his chest.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock says and Greg glosses over the way it sounds like a question, too pleased to hear him say it.

“Scared me half to death,” Greg tucks his hands into his pockets. “Can’t take much more of that.”

“Don’t want you keeling over, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, smirking slightly. “Who’d –”

“- smuggle you onto crime scenes,” Greg says, laughing. “Donovan may feel bad about what happened – but not that bad.”

“Quite,” Sherlock says. The smirk smoothes out into something a little smaller, more private. Greg wants to kiss it off him but resists the urge, letting Sherlock lead.

Sherlock moves closer and raises a hand to cup Greg’s cheek. He brushes his thumb against the skin and Greg feels the remaining tension seep out of his bones. _He’s still alive._

“That’s better,” Sherlock says, leaning in to press their mouths together. It’s not quite a kiss, like Sherlock’s waiting for something, so Greg fits his hand to Sherlock’s waist and drags him close, opening his mouth against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s still an oddly hesitant kisser but Greg is enjoying the experience of Sherlock learning with him, from him – it’s not like Greg’s had that much experience kissing men before. Sherlock’s tongue flicks against his and Greg makes an involuntary noise, fingers digging into Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock always rests their foreheads together after a kiss, Greg thinks it might be his way of hiding his reactions until he’s back in control. He doesn’t mind, enjoys being close like this.

“Will you help me?” Sherlock asks when he pulls back. Greg sweeps his thumb up and down the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, feeling Sherlock’s slight shiver in reaction.

“I’m not exactly the poster boy for marriage,” Greg says, reluctantly stepping away and leaning against the back of John’s chair.

“Unless I’m mistaken the Best Man doesn’t do the marrying,” Sherlock says, falling back into his seat by the window in a sprawl of limbs.

“You really want my help?” Greg asks, rubbing a hand over his hair.

“Who else can I ask?” Sherlock asks in reply. “You’re the only other male friend I have.”

“Fair point,” Greg says with a nod. It’s probably ridiculous how warm he feels inside when Sherlock calls him a friend – especially considering the kissing. “Alright then, what first?”

Sherlock smiles.

\--

Whatever had started with Sherlock’s kiss has developed at the sort of glacial pace Greg would’ve hated when he was younger – he’d met his wife and married her within a year, which was probably a sign he should’ve paid more attention to – but he’s found himself enjoying it.

It’s been obvious that Sherlock doesn’t know how to date and Greg hasn’t really had time to since the divorce so both of them have been making it up as they go along. Greg buys them dinner once a week and they sit in the Baker Street flat – which feels weirdly empty without John – and talk about cases.

Sometimes Sherlock will tangle their legs together as they sit opposite each other. Others he’ll shun any kind of physical intimacy. Greg is getting good at recognising when Sherlock is feeling receptive. Sometimes they kiss at the door, hellos and goodbyes punctuated by lingering touches, and sometimes they don’t. Sherlock seems to like gripping Greg’s hands in his own, or trailing his fingers up and down Greg’s arms.

It’s peaceful, is what it is, which is not anything Greg would ever have expected from Sherlock if he’d really thought about it. It’s punctuated by whirlwinds of activity when Greg brings Sherlock in on a case, or Sherlock calls him in to arrest someone, but it’s calm otherwise.

Greg likes it.

\--

Greg hasn’t had many opportunities to watch Sherlock play. There were a few times before-John that Greg had sat in Sherlock’s flat, waiting for Sherlock to figure something out, and been treated to Sherlock’s playing. As far as Greg can tell Sherlock plays very well – but he’s never been able to tell the difference between Nigel Kennedy and any of the other apparently famous violinists that the ex used to listen to.

(He likes the music well enough, admires the skill of it, but he’s never really been good at saying more than ‘yeah, it sounds good’ when asked.)

He’s looking forward to hearing Sherlock play at the reception. He’s also amazed that Sherlock’s going to play in public. It’s one of the few things he seems to do that is only for himself and not for the fictional audience he carries his work out for.

When Greg gets back to the hall after stowing Sherlock’s attempted-murderer at the local nick he finds Mary on a sofa in the foyer, legs swung up and dress indecorously spread about her. He smiles and she smiles tiredly back.

“Taking a breather?” Greg asks, pausing by the sofa. Mary nods.

“They don’t tell you how exhausting it is to be so happy,” Mary says, resting her forehead against her hand.

“Harder than it looks,” Greg says, tucking his hands into his pocket. “I remember.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Mary says, shooting him a look from under her hand. “That was –”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Greg says, shrugging. “It was over a long time before it ended.”

“And you’ve got something new, now, anyway,” Mary says, smiling. It’s easy to see why John fell in love with her when she smiles like that.

“What makes you think that?” Greg asks, eyes flicking towards the hall where he can hear the DJ setting up.

“The way you jump into action as soon as Sherlock says something,” Mary says, something wicked about her smile. “And the way you watch him all the time – like you’re waiting for him to say something in the first place.”

“I liked this conversation better when it was almost about my ex-wife,” Greg says, smiling awkwardly at his feet. He can feel his cheeks heating up.

“He’s fussing about in the hall if you want to see him,” Mary winks at him. “He could use it, to be honest, I think he’s panicking about performing. He’s driving John mad.”

“Does he know?” Greg asks, making a gesture to encompass himself and Sherlock. Mary’s smile is a little less wicked.

“I don’t know if he does,” she says quietly. “He hasn’t said anything.”

“It’s just – I don’t even really know what’s going on myself,” Greg says, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as he says it out loud. “And John’s his best mate, you know?”

“Yeah,” Mary says, nodding. “I know. Don’t worry – I can keep a secret.”

“Thanks,” Greg says. “And – I hope you’ll be happy together.”

Mary’s smile is blinding, full of love, and Greg can remember being like that once – dressed in top hat and tails because they had to do the traditional thing – and wonders if he’ll ever be that again.

Sherlock is on the stage, tuning his violin and rehearsing, and Greg hears him before he sees him. The DJ is looking at Sherlock sideways, irritated and fascinated by turns – it’s a common look on anyone meeting Sherlock for the first time. Sherlock is ignoring the DJ, which is also common.

Greg leans a hip against the edge of the stage and watches him; the way Sherlock’s fingers move gracefully over the strings, the bow moving an inch above them as he listens to the music in his mind, his eyes closed in concentration. He looks unreal.

Greg can’t escape a thought of Sherlock’s fingers playing against the nape of his neck – something from the last evening they spent together – and he shivers. Sherlock’s eyes snap open, like he’s sensed Greg’s presence, and they focus on Greg. Sherlock looks pleased to be watched but not in the self-satisfied way Greg’s used to.

“Happy?” Greg asks.

“It should be passable,” Sherlock says, setting his violin on a stand.

“Got your man squared away,” Greg says, stepping back as Sherlock jumps down from the stage. He reaches out a hand to steady Sherlock, even though he doesn’t need it, and Sherlock lets him curl a hand around his elbow.

“What about you?” Sherlock asks, turning into Greg’s space. “Are you happy?”

“I –” Greg starts and stops, wrongfooted as usual. “We caught an attempted murderer, the speech I spent several hours I didn’t have to spare helping you with went off mostly alright and tonight I get to hear you play. I’m happy enough.”

“Good,” Sherlock says, nodding his head. “I like it when you’re happy.”

“Tell you what would make me happier,” Greg says, gripping a little tighter when Sherlock begins to move away. “If you dance with me later.”

“Really?” Sherlock asks, barely covering a moment of surprise.

“Why not?” Greg asks with a little lift of his shoulders. “It’s what people do at weddings.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, gently pulling away from Greg. “People also have sex at weddings, I’m given to believe.”

He spins away, leaving Greg open-mouthed and flushing up the back of his neck.

\--

Greg hasn’t cared about sex for a long time. Apparently this is something his mates at the Yard can’t possibly understand. He knows it’s part of what killed his marriage, can still remember being told that he didn’t care anymore, that he didn’t even look. The job became more important.

(It is important – but it was never more important than his marriage, not that it ended up mattering when the divorce was carried out over adultery.)

Sherlock is hard to read, sexually, always has been. He’s never seemed to care, talked about sexual indiscretions in cases with none of the licentiousness the junior (and some of the senior) officers do, and he’s always been dismissive of the people that hit on him.

If Sherlock does think about sex at all Greg imagines he thinks about it with the same fervour he applies to any puzzle. A few times since they’ve being doing whatever it is they’re doing Greg’s found himself idly imagining being the focus of all that incredible attention to detail in bed. He ends up so hard that it’s almost physically painful.

In this, like everything else, Greg is happy to let Sherlock take the lead.

\--

“Leaving early?” Greg catches Sherlock before he reaches the cars, wonders how he was planning on escaping when he can't drive.

Sherlock pauses, the angle of his shoulders high and tight, and Greg waits, watching him.

“Well,” Sherlock says, turning his head enough to look at Greg from the corner of his eye. “My work here is done.”

That startles a laugh out of Greg, at the sheer pomposity of it, and Sherlock turns, confusion etched into his face.

“You’re unbelievable,” Greg shakes his head, fond, and some of the confusion clears from Sherlock’s face.

He takes a few steps forward and stands beside Sherlock, bumping their shoulders together. Sherlock leans into him for a moment and Greg enjoys the way their arms brush against one another.

“Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves,” Sherlock says, looking back at the hall. The music is a distant thumping. “I wasn’t sure I had much more to offer.”

“I thought you would’ve been dancing with your new friend,” Greg says, smiling sideways at him. “Janine.”

“She’s dancing with someone else,” Sherlock says, pausing before adding: “And I hardly consider her a friend.”

“I don’t know why,” Greg shrugs. “You seemed to be getting on alright.”

“I think you possibly know me well enough to know I don’t form friendships that easily,” Sherlock pulls a face and Greg tries not to smile at him, moments like these he’s still giddy that Sherlock’s not dead.

“The you two years ago, maybe,” Greg says, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’ve changed.”

“Come on, Grant, I never changed,” the half-smile Sherlock shoots him is sly and Greg huffs out a laugh, releasing his shoulder and punching him gently on the arm.

“Now I know you’re doing it on purpose,” Greg says, shaking his head.

“Perhaps you could consider it a term of endearment,” Sherlock says and this time his smile is small and fond. Greg feels warm all over.

“Stay a little longer,” Greg says, circling his hand around Sherlock’s elbow. “Dance with me. You didn’t give me an answer earlier.”

“I don’t want to go back inside,” Sherlock says, shoulders tensing up again. Which is fair enough – he’s had more contact with people today than Greg’s ever seen him have.

“We can hear the music from here,” Greg moves around to face Sherlock, looks up at him.

Sherlock is thoughtful as he looks at Greg, eyes flicking over him in a way that makes Greg feel measured in a very literal sense.

“Can I lead?” Sherlock asks, meeting Greg’s eyes again. Greg laughs.

“Sure, why not?” Greg says, offering his hands to Sherlock.

Sherlock pulls one up to lie on his shoulder and grasps the other firmly, fingers dry against Greg’s skin. His free hand goes to Greg’s waist, curving over his hip, and he pulls them together – much closer than John and Mary were dancing inside.

“John has always been an uncomfortable dancer,” Sherlock says, answering a question Greg hadn’t even thought to frame. “I hope you’re a better partner.”

Greg can only nod, distracted by the full warm press of Sherlock’s body against his. He curls his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, rubs his fingers over the grain of the woollen coat. He smells good this close, Greg hadn’t been close enough to notice, something earthy and warm and wholly appealing. Greg wonders if Sherlock wore the scent for him.

He hopes he did.

Sherlock hums under his breath as they dance, snatches of a tune that Greg doesn’t recognise, and waltzes them around smoothly and slowly. He dances well, and Greg remembers enough of distant school lessons to move easily with him. Thinking about it, he’s really not surprised.

“Are you thinking about having sex with me?” Sherlock asks, shocking a surprised sound out of Greg.

“I wasn’t,” Greg says, angling his body very slightly away from Sherlock. “But I am now.”

“I’ve been told that people think of dancing as a prelude to sex,” Sherlock says, the same level of clinical disinterest in his tone as when he breaks down a case he considers dull.

“Not this kind of dancing,” Greg says. He slides his hand across Sherlock’s shoulder to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers brushing against the curls of his hair.

“When the waltz was originally introduced it was considered shocking,” Sherlock says, palm spreading wide against the small of Greg’s back. “As late as 1825 the OED called it riotous and indecent.”

“Doesn’t seem like the sort of information you’d keep in that brain of yours,” Greg says, holding Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s cheeks flush slightly.

“There was a case –” he begins. Greg shakes his head.

“Lie,” he says, smiling. “You know – the world won’t come to end if you have more hobbies than interfering with police business and playing the violin.”

“I might have a small fondness for dancing,” Sherlock says, arm tightening around Greg's waist.

“Small?” Greg asks and maybe his smile is a little too smug.

Sherlock dips him without warning, a smooth slide of a move, and supports him easily. Greg's breath goes out of his chest a little, both at the sudden movement and the soft pleasure on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's mouth splits into a grin and he pulls Greg up again, drawing him close.

“Impressed?” Sherlock asks, canting an eyebrow. Greg rolls his eyes.

“You know I am,” he replies, relaxing into Sherlock's hold.

Sherlock dips his head and nudges Greg's nose with his own, seeking out a kiss that Greg gives easily. There's more confidence than usual, perhaps Sherlock had a little more champagne than anyone noticed, and Greg likes it; likes the firmness of Sherlock's hand on his back and the slick press of their mouths together.

“You can kiss me whenever you want, by the way,” Sherlock says when he pulls back to touch their foreheads together. They're still lazily waltzing in a slow circle and Greg feels a little dizzy. “Well. Maybe not whenever – I don't think it would be appropriate for a crime scene, after all.”

Greg laughs, dizzy with it, and releases Sherlock's hand so that he can pull Sherlock into a kiss with all the feeling he's been afraid to show. Sherlock huffs a startled breath through his nose then eases into the kiss, giving Greg the lead for the first time.

It's a good kiss.

“That day you came in like the cavalry,” Sherlock says when they’re leaning together again. Greg's budget is still suffering for the moment of panic but his only reaction is a tightening of his hand on Sherlock’s neck. “You were supposed to arrest the Waters gang, weren't you?”

“Eighteen months we spent after them,” Greg says, pulling away and tucking his hands into his pockets so Sherlock can't see his clenched fists. “More money and overtime than I've spent on any other op. We finally had them.”

“And I drew you away,” Sherlock says. He looks contrite but there's something more in his attitude, something Greg can't place.

“Sally made the arrest,” Greg shrugs. “She deserved it just as much.”

“One of the most high-profile arrests of your career,” Sherlock says, running a hand through his already disordered hair. “You left it because you thought I was in danger.”

“Yes,” Greg says, straightening to his full height.

“I've been trying to understand what that could possibly mean for months,” Sherlock says, staring hard at Greg. Greg sighs.

“Should've just asked John,” Greg says, waving a hand towards the reception. “He could tell you easily. Knows a bit about it himself, I suspect.”

“John was busy,” Sherlock says. He moves closer to Greg again, watching him so closely that Greg feels like he's under a microscope. Greg breathes out a shaky breath.

“It means I love you, you shit,” Greg says, turning his eyes skyward. “That's what it means. It means I was terrified that something had happened to you again. That I'd lost you. _Again_. I can't do that, Sherlock, I can't.”

“You love me,” Sherlock asks, eyes wide. “You – really? Me?”

“I'm beginning to see why it was so hard for you to understand that John was asking you to be his Best Man,” Greg says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yes. If you need to hear it again: I love you, but I'm terrible at saying it. Just ask my ex-wife.”

“I'd rather we not talk about her,” Sherlock says, a tiny flicker of jealousy in his eyes.

“Yeah, you and me both, mate,” Greg says, huffing out a laugh.

“Should I – do you want me to say it to you?” Sherlock asks, uncharacteristically lost.

“Sherlock you -” Greg stops and takes another slow breath. “You don't have to say it if you don't feel it. I'm happy as things are.”

“I'm not – emotion is not my forte,” Sherlock says, spreading his hands. “Particularly when applied to myself.”

“You take your time to figure it out,” Greg says, meaning every word of it. “I don't want you to say it because you feel you have to.”

Sherlock watches him closely, clearly looking for signs of deceit. Greg doesn't look away, instead presses the image of Sherlock into his memory – hair ruffled by Greg's hands, lips reddened from kissing, cheeks flushed high from emotion he doesn't understand. He looks extraordinary and Greg can't look away.

Sherlock nods to himself and extends a hand. Greg takes it and pulls Sherlock close, slinging an arm around his middle and settling against his side.

“D'you want me to take you home?” Greg asks, the drink he had during the meal has had more than enough time to wear off and he hasn't had another drop since Sherlock texted him in the middle of his frenzy.

“Don't you need to -” Sherlock waves a hand over his shoulder. Greg shakes his head.

“Already made my goodbyes when I spotted you sneaking out,” he says. “Thought you might want some company. And a lift.”

“Alright,” Sherlock shifts a little, puts some distance between them and Greg lets him go, knowing better than to hold on. Sherlock surprises him by threading an arm through his and tugging him on towards the car park.

“You could stay the night,” Sherlock says when they've been on the road for ten minutes. Greg's breath catches in his throat. “It must be hard for you to sleep on your own.”

Sometimes Greg worries about the sheer amount of deductions Sherlock has stored up in his head – particularly since John started encouraging him not to announce his every little thought – because it's been hard for Greg to sleep since his ex-wife officially moved out. Three years ago.

“I'd like that,” Greg says, stealing a look at Sherlock. Sherlock nods and leans his head against the car window, clearly exhausted from socialising but too proud to admit it.

“Geoff, though,” Greg says after a moment, laughing. “It doesn't even sound anything _like_ Greg.”

“Running out of names that start with 'G',” Sherlock says. Greg glances at him and sees him smiling even as his eyes fall shut.

Greg flicks the radio onto Classic FM and leaves it low, surprises himself by recognising the tune Sherlock was humming earlier. He looks over to say something but Sherlock is asleep. Which means he misses the impossibly fond smile Greg is helpless to stop forming on his lips.

He drives on.


End file.
